The White House: A Flynn Carroll Thriller

by Whitley Strieber

Flynn knew that Aeon would be listening to all of this. They would be hearing the apparent failure of their plan. So they would act. But how? When?

  The world was still a time bomb, just ticking in a new, as-yet-undiscovered way.

  “Mr. President,” Fielder said, “what is this system? Is it Space Command’s baby?”

  “We don’t have it,” Air Chief Dexter said.

  “Nobody has it,” the president said.

  Silence again, this time total. More gray faces.

  “What can I say,” Greene added. “I took a calculated risk.”

  Putin returned to the line. “The Indians see the Pakistani silos closing. They are standing down.”

  Greene looked around the room. “I think we’ve returned to stability, am I right?”

  Heads were nodding. The secretary of defense said, “Permission to move to DEFCON 3 and inform the country.”

  Greene said to Putin, “We’re going to DEFCON 3 at this time.”

  “We are standing our mobile units down.” They were the most serious threat the Russians possessed, mobile, solid-fueled ICBMs that were difficult to track as they moved along the back roads of Siberia. “You’ll see them all back at base.”

  “Will you please open discussions with the Iranians? They need the Supreme Leader to be gone.”

  “We cannot interfere like that.”

  “Of course not, but please do!”

  There was the slightest of chuckles. “Mr. President, we must meet sometime. I have an intelligence assessment that speaks not so well of you, but I must say, I am impressed with your performance today.”

  “As am I with yours.”

  “I have some practice.”

  They closed the line.

  One of the seconds began applauding, then another, and another. The front of the table did the same. Boxleitner went to his feet, followed by Fielder, followed by the others.

  Flynn applauded, too. He had seen dopey, ill-informed, and ill-prepared Bill Greene transform into a president before his eyes. In fact, a great president. The power of the office—its magic—had found the best of the man.

  Bill stood, too. After a moment, he did something a president rarely does: He lifted his right hand in salute to his team.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  AS THE PEOC was being cleared of debris and remains, and the various staffers were leaving, Flynn noticed that Lorna Greene was not present. When he asked Ginny Bowers, he was told that she was in the Residence, lying down.

  Not unreasonable, but it was also true that Flynn hadn’t seen her leave. He liked to know where people were, and made a note to confirm her presence in her room.

  The president had been hustled out by Secret Service agents, but only after Flynn had made certain that Bill recognized each one of them personally. Later, everybody in the White House operation would be temperature-tested, and then, as part of the deeper investigation into the degree that Aeon had penetrated the government, DNA-tested as well, and scanned for implants.

  In the meantime, if Flynn had his way—and he was determined that he would—the presidency would be isolated from its own support system. The only people who would have access to Bill Greene would be those he knew personally. This meant that, of the 708 staffers on the presidential roster, exactly 54 would be allowed into his presence, and then only after the full test sequence had been completed.

  Now just Flynn and Diana were left in the PEOC. The bodies had been pushed up against a wall. They were waiting for a mortuary team that was coming in from Langley.

  “Did you see Lorna leave?”

  Diana frowned. “I’m not sure.”

  “Where’s the football?”

  “You don’t think—”

  “Where is it?”

  “Colonel Whittier took it out with the president. That I did see.”

  “I’m gonna put eyes on Lorna.”

  “You need to get cleaned up before you go over to the Residence.”

  “This situation is still extremely dangerous.”

  “We just won! We beat Aeon. You did, Flynn!”

  He went out into the corridor, then up the stairs that led to the East Wing. Whenever he was out of sight of others, he ran. Otherwise, he moved as fast as he could without looking like he was on the attack. Which he was. These people thought that they’d quieted a storm. They did not understand the true nature of that storm, and he had not had the chance to explain the peril to them.

  As he hurried into the Residence, he was confused to hear a cheerful female voice jabbering on about the Truman portrait. A moment later, he saw a clutch of people ahead of him and realized that it had not been closed to visitors, and that tourists were being led through as they were every day. What had they done during the DEFCON 5? Were they even aware that it had been declared?

  As he passed through the group, people looked up at the tall, pale man in the soiled jeans and pullover. He still stank; he could see that in their faces. A cell phone came out, but it only got a shot of his back. Otherwise he would have crushed it.

  He headed for the Grand Staircase. At this point the Secret Service was no longer in his face. That was good, because he was real tired of them. They couldn’t be blamed for having been infiltrated by Aeon. In fact, they’d done their job heroically, but still, he could not afford to be slowed down even a little.

  There were two agents on the staircase. “Where’s POTUS?” he asked.

  “West Wing.”

  That would mean the office suite. The Oval was used mostly for ceremonial occasions—bill signings and such. Receiving damage assessments from Israel and Malmstrom, which is what he would be doing right now, was hardly that.

  “And Whittier?”

  “With him. Orders are to remain in sight.”

  That was good. As it should be. The football must remain in sight of Bill and out of sight of Lorna.

  The White House was generally quiet, but there had been tourists downstairs. Up here, the silence was total. A single Secret Service agent was stationed in the Central Hall.

  “Where is everybody?” Flynn asked.

  “Nobody here.”

  “The First Lady’s not up here?”

  “No, sir. Nobody is.”

  He vaulted the stairs and headed for the Secret Service office, under the Oval. As he moved through the Residence, then into the West Wing, he noted everybody he passed. Aeon had made a mistake with the body temperature of its biologicals, but that would be corrected, and maybe it could be done remotely; Flynn could not be sure. Knowing Aeon, it might not even have been a mistake. It might have been a deception, a lie intended to hide some greater lie.

  The office was crowded, and Flynn had to push his way past some unwilling people. He spotted Simon Forde and shoved his way closer.

  “You’ve sure as hell arrived,” Ford snarled.

  “Clear the room.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Clear the room. Now!”

  “OK!”

  “Gentlemen, go to your stations,” Flynn said. “If you don’t have an assignment yet, find a hole. No clumping up—I want the whole facility covered!” He added, “I need two technicians who can work the surveillance system.”

  “That’s classified.”

  “You do this! Now!”

  Forde called two men back.

  “I want you to roll back to when people were leaving the PEOC. Find the First Lady, then follow her. Track her to her present location.”

  As he waited, he realized that they were doing it in real time, which was far too slow. “Excuse me,” he said to one of them. The kid turned, his eyebrows raised as if to say, “How dare you interrupt me, I’m White House.” Flynn hauled him out of his chair and tossed him against the far wall. There was a rocking crash and an alarmed young cry. Flynn didn’t look; he didn’t have time. He took his place at the console.

  “Speed it up,” he said to the boy beside him.

  “We can’t—”

  “Speed it up!”


  Flynn watched the door fly open and figures go speeding out. He saw Cissy, then various officials, then Secret Service agents ahead of and behind the presidential entourage, then a flock of military brass. Then the corridor was empty. He did not see the First Lady.

  He jumped up and headed for the door. On the way, he accosted Simon Forde. “You’re to secure the suite right now. Nobody enters except me, nobody leaves except me. Any agent, any person whatsoever, who defies this order, you detain them. Do you understand?”

  Forde’s eyes were the size of plates.

  Flynn shook him. “Save it! Go into shock on your own damn time.”

  He spluttered, gagged. “Sir—”

  “Do as you’re told, and do it right!”

  Flynn headed down the hall and through the Oval, where a butler was carefully dusting the dusted desk. Outside, gardeners were pruning the late roses. In the distance, the maples glowed red. Between the building and the stately trees, Marine One gleamed like a jewel, waiting to speed its precious cargo to whatever safety might be found.

  Flynn burst into the working suite. “Mr. President!”

  He held up a hand as Vice President Milligan came over to Flynn and said, “Netanyahu’s on the horn. All hell’s breaking out in Israel. Galilee is a radiation zone. There’s at least a hundred thousand dead and he’s under siege to blow hell out of Iran. A mob’s going to tear him apart unless he burns the whole country to the ground.”

  Bill’s forehead was sheened with sweat. He crouched over the phone. “We’ll do ’em. All of ’em,” he said.

  “We’re going to decapitate the Iranian government,” Milligan said calmly.

  Flynn thought of Ghorbani out there on the front line, of the Special Forces operatives deep in country, of all the courage that was involved, and a feeling came into him that added pride to the determination that was the compass of his soul. If, indeed, all these people were what they seemed.

  “Putin?”

  “He’s not going to intervene.”

  “The First Lady?”

  Milligan shook his head.

  Flynn opened his secure phone—not because it would help, but because it was what he had—and called Cissy.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In my room. Flynn, what can I do?”

  “I’m gonna need you. I want you downstairs in thirty seconds.”

  He recognized Colonel Whittier by the briefcase that he carried. He went to him. “Open it.”

  “Sir?”

  “Open it right now and run its test program.”

  The colonel hesitated. He had to think about this. Where was this order coming from? Flynn’s gun slipped into his hand. “I’m sorry, Colonel, I just don’t have time. I won’t hurt you, but you can report that you did it under duress.”

  He opened the briefcase. Flynn saw the ancient equipment inside, that and the much newer, deeply secret quantum communicator—a dark, ominous eye half-concealed among the innocent switches and the old numerical coding apparatus.

  The colonel ran it through its checks, getting green lights each time it completed a test. Then he pressed the red button that would run the system drill, and watched as each missile command center and each submarine signaled back and the relevant indicator light went from yellow to green. They all reported—all but one.

  “Malmstrom?”

  “Still alive, but not online. Aboveground had its day ruined. Downstairs is believed to be still operational.”

  Flynn deliberated. Should he stay here with the football, or locate Lorna? If he remained here, nothing she could do would enable her to activate it. But as long as she wasn’t located, the danger remained.

  He called Diana. She answered immediately. The PEOC was equipped with cell phone relays, even on secure systems.

  “Is everything under control down there?”

  “The mortuary team is trying to understand why the casualties have artificial skin and strange organs. I’m pretending to be mystified.”

  “I want all that material moved forthwith to the burn facility at Wright-Pat. Tell them to bag it, seal it with classified seals, and transport it at once.” Outside of the presidential bubble, the press, he knew, must be in a frenzy. If word of these strange corpses got out, there was liable to be some sort of mass psychosis, starting with the news anchors.

  “Got it.”

  “OK. Now listen up. We’ve lost Lorna. Fortunately, the football’s safe, so that’s not an immediate problem. But I need to locate her and get her off the chessboard. I want you to come up here and keep eyes on the football at all times. I’ve left orders that nobody enters or leaves the suite. I’m going to take Cissy with me. She knows Lorna’s haunts.”

  “I’m in motion. What are you going to do with Lorna?”

  “Get a suite ready at Walter Reed. I want the best neurosurgical team we can find standing by.”

  “You’re going to try to save that bitch?”

  “I’m gonna try to save a man’s wife.”

  “Are you being cynical or foolish?”

  “Both.” He closed the secure phone and returned to the Residence. Cissy was sitting on the foot of the Grand Staircase, surrounded by excited tourists, who were listening to her tell tales of life in the White House. It was a superb performance—warm, cheerful and engaging—but nobody in the media was going to be even close to caring, not with the epochal news that must be breaking out there about now.

  “Let’s go,” he said to Cissy. “Sorry, folks, show’s over.”

  As he hurried her toward the private entrance, he could hear people speculating that he was a plumber.

  Sort of.

  “I need an ordinary car from the motor pool. Ordinary but fast. What have you got?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Another question—where would your mother go if she was running for her life? If she thought the entire world had turned against her? Where would she go?”

  “Home. She’d go back to Midland. We own the cops, not to mention the entire city, us and the Doxys.”

  “Too far. She doesn’t have time.”

  “Then maybe Ginny’s place.”

  The Chief Usher had appeared discreetly, and was standing nearby.

  “What’s the fastest car down there?” Flynn asked him.

  “Miss Greene, may I call Agent Skinner?”

  “No,” Flynn said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Bring the car up. Do it now.”

  “Sir, I don’t believe—”

  “I don’t care what you believe! Do it!”

  “Please, Martin, we’re on a special mission for Daddy. It’s urgent.”

  He gave a weak smile. “Are you sure, miss, because if your mother—”

  “Martin, my mother is drunk and on drugs. She’s at a friend’s house raising hell.”

  “But I thought she was here. I didn’t see her leave.”

  “They didn’t see Mamie Eisenhower, either! She used to hide in the bushes. God knows how Momma did it, but you know the drunk’s skill at evasion—you’ve worked here for years. Under Clinton and W, for God’s sake. How many times did you lose track of them?”

  He called for the car, and in a few moments one of the garage attendants brought up a BMW M5. If he had to give chase or escape, this car was going to be effective.

  Flynn got behind the wheel and they took off. As they drove, Cissy input Ginny’s street address. “What’ll you do when you find her, Flynn? Please don’t hurt her, I couldn’t bear that.”

  “I won’t hurt her.”

  “No, just kill her.”

  He did not reply. As they drove, he watched and waited. They were half a mile from the White House when they reached a good location—an active street overhung by large trees. “Pull over.”

  “Pull over? Really?”

  “Right now please.”

  She pulled up to t
he curb. He got out. Ginny’s condo was now half a block away.

  “Flynn?”

  “Get back in the traffic stream. Keep going, then get out and go into the condo.”

  “Flynn, tell me what you’re doing.”

  He couldn’t tell her that he was headed back to the White House. Aeon’s surveillance abilities made that too great a risk. He laid a finger against his lips, and she nodded.

  He was gratified to see her do as he had asked and disappear down the street. He had noted well that Lorna had never exited the PEOC. This meant that she was under it, in the same tunnel system that he and Diana had used. She had retreated to safety among Aeon’s biorobots.

  Aeon would be desperate now, so Lorna wouldn’t be wasting time trying to convince Bill to executed a preemptive launch. She would be seeking to gain control over the football herself.

  Walking at this pace, he was going to need roughly ten minutes to get back. He was aware that the world could easily come to an end during that time. But he dared not take a cab or any other form of transportation. Worse, if he was going to avoid detection by Aeon when he got there, he was going to have to carry out a maneuver so dangerous that it might get him killed before the mission was over.

  Every muscle in his body strained to break out of the crowd and use all of his swiftness to get to the White House in two minutes rather than ten. Instead, he strolled, gazing here at a pretty woman, there at a store display, stopping to look in the window of an inviting bookstore, then to seemingly chat with some people at an outdoor café. Actually, he was only asking directions he didn’t need. From above, though, he would blend into the crowd, and that was what mattered.

  It took what seemed like an hour, but he actually reached the White House perimeter in eight minutes. And now came the difficult part. The DEFCON 5 alert had been announced, then rescinded. As yet, the public and the press knew little of the story. They’d been told that the alert had been triggered accidentally. Later, they would be told that it had been a nuclear accident at Malmstrom involving an experimental weapon.

  At this point, he could get past the guards without a problem, but that would give him away immediately. He looked up at the perimeter fence.

  Since the Obama years, when numerous people had tried to scale it, some succeeding, it had been raised eighteen inches. There was no razor wire, although that had been discussed, but no average man could hope to vault it.